


Please Let Me Wake

by impish_nature



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: (the comfort isn't yet but there will be comfort), Gen, Horror, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, Rough memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-27
Updated: 2018-06-04
Packaged: 2019-04-28 19:02:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14455755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impish_nature/pseuds/impish_nature
Summary: Some nights I don't want to sleep for fear of nightmares... But at the same time I can't seem to wake from them either.Sometimes the monsters from the past and present are indistinguishable. And unfortunately for Stan and Ford- nightmares aren’t always picky.





	1. It slithers, cold and bleak

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I’m back, finally sharing the piece I posted a snippet on a while back c: I’m not sure what to tag warnings as but this is to do with nightmares/bad memories and the fall out from them so- I hope that’s warning enough.  
> They're kind of based on real life nightmares so you know. I tried to do them justice.

_Something's not right..._

Ford frowned as he looked up from his journal, eyes casting around the area, pen poised above the book hesitantly. Only a moment ago he had thought he'd found himself a quiet, peaceful place to write his thoughts down in. The forest around him had so far proved to be quite harmless, much like the edges of the woodland around Gravity Falls, full of life and wonder before you headed in deeper and found what lay beyond. It hadn't been long before the itch to write had taken over, the small glade he'd stumbled upon a perfect spot to sit up against a tree and scratch down some notes on the fascinating creatures he had seen along his winding route through the trees.

But now...

Something didn't feel right.

There was a tenseness to the air. A hush, as if the world had suddenly muted around him. There was no bird song, no hint of wildlife in the brush. The very trees seemed to have frozen in place, no hint of a breeze to make them rustle, and yet a draft of ice cold air blew through, making his skin erupt in goose bumps and his entire body quake as it bit deep into his bones. 

Ford found his hackles raising ever so slightly in response to the strange tang to the wind. He sat up ever so slightly, knees coming up as he closed his journal, ready to jump up at a moment’s notice. It wouldn't be the first time that he had listened to instinct, something that had been honed only through years and years of travelling through the multiverse. He'd been caught off guard too many times to count, cursed his inability to spot the signs, to catch those almost imperceptible changes to the world that all pointed out that  _something big_  was about to happen.

It made listening to intuition second nature, made the doubting, scoffing thoughts that wanted to shake off the sudden paranoia less inviting and harder to believe when he knew that everything could fall apart within a blink of an eye, no matter what logic and rationale dictated.

There was nothing different about the scene, not really. Sure, the breeze was crisp and clear, a gust of fresh air that moments before had made him take a deep breath in, safe in the knowledge that the world was as it should be. The light was still dappled, sparks of the midday sun flickering through the canopy of the trees and speckling the floor around him in bursts of warm light that left the entire area visible and pleasantly heated around him.

And yet- it all felt false. A false safety, a false security.

A break in his guard if he wasn't careful.

If he was wrong, he could laugh it off later. But for now- he'd rather be safe than sorry.

He stayed locked in place, pen dropped to his side in favour of hovering his hand over his holstered gun. 

He could feel his pulse beating solidly in his ear, making up for the lack of noise around him. It beat loud, getting faster and faster, a painful alarm near the base of his skull. He willed himself to breathe to release some of the tension, realising belatedly that he had been holding in a breath to listen more intently through the rush of blood in his veins. He willed himself to calm down and keep a level head, so he could face whatever was coming for him as logically and practically as possible. He needed to think, needed to focus, to wait and watch and  _listen_ -

A soft hiss emanated from dead ahead of him.

The world cut back into frame around him, his ragged breaths, his beating heart slipping back into the framework to stop occupying his attention as the sound encompassed him. His eyes snapped to the brush before him, darting frantically as the rest of him seemingly turned to stone. There was a soft shift of movement, the branches and leaves twitching and tugging as if pulled apart by an unseen entity-

His breathing hitched, a shiver barely suppressed as his eyes were drawn back to a gap in the leaves-

Where two large gleaming black eyes stared back at him.

A forked tongue flicked through the brush, its edges snapping into sight before retracting again, tasting the air as it watched him for any signs of life. He held his breath, refusing to move as it continued to observe him, a large reptilian head slowly beginning to poke through the branches, pulling itself up and forward to get a closer look at him. If he hadn't been so focused on the imminent danger he had found himself in, he might have found it an interesting specimen to scrutinise in kind, beautiful even. Deadly dark scales that were almost camouflaged entirely in the shade of the underbrush became iridescent in the dappled light, glistening hypnotically as it shifted ever closer, undulating coils sliding out from in amongst the trees.

As it was, however, his mind had more important problems to solve than committing the perilously beautiful beast to memory.

Ford couldn't help but swallow nervously as it moved slowly and purposefully across the glade, the only sounds of life around them the constant soft shifting of its coils and sporadic emanating hisses, soothing and yet nerve-wracking all at once. His mind raced ahead of the creature, ignoring the slowly building pressure to bounce through perilous image after perilous image that awaited him. Each image sent another whiplash shiver through him, his body trying desperately not to quake with every thought. Row upon row of sharp narrow teeth-  a lower jaw that unhinged, opening impossibly wider and wider- wide enough to encompass his head, or perhaps- a sudden lunge, the creature suddenly taking over his entire vision, quick as lightning- a burst of pain as needle sharp points bit deep into yielding flesh-

His fingers twitched above his gun, the snake pausing in its tracks to taste the air once more. He bit down on the urge to move any further, knowing that his only hopes of getting through this unscathed was if the creature determined he wasn't prey or if he could get to his gun faster.

There was no use trying to run, for some reason he was certain of that.

As his mind span, running through endless probabilities and possibilities, he kept his eyes trained tight on the gaze of the creature, kept every fibre of his being locked and poised waiting for its reaction.

...He didn't realise his mistake until it was too late.

Something pressed insistently against his thigh. 

Without thinking, he full body flinched away, hand going straight to his gun as his head snapped down towards the offending touch.

It moved with him, his breathing stuttering to a halt as a tight tendril wrapped around his ankle, the creature's tail twisting and coiling, around and around, holding him in place. 

_How did I not notice-_

Another loud hiss stopped his thoughts in their tracks, his breath ghosting out of him in an ice cold shock of terror as a puff of warmth tussled his hair-

He awoke with a start, hands snapping up to protect his head, the creature still lunging towards him in his mind's eye. He panted, eyes darting around the dark room, the creature nowhere in sight-

But the feel of a cold tendril was still tight around his leg.

He flinched, yanking away from the feeling hard and ripped the bed covers away from him in a quick fluid motion. He glanced down as he did so, watched the dark, scaled tail slither beneath the end of the cover, retracting back out of sight. The heaviness of it vibrated through the bed along with the shifting sound of its movements that grated through his ears like fingernails on a chalkboard.

He didn't wait for it to change its mind.

Ford jumped out of bed, dragging the end of the cover with him as he snapped on the light, hand reaching for the gun on his bedside cabinet as soon as the light flickered on-

The bed was empty.

He swallowed again, eyes darting quickly to the covers still in his tight white knuckled grip. He shook it vehemently, flicking it up and over to check for any signs that things weren't as they should be.

...It took a while for his breathing to even out, for his mind to catch up with the overhead light and remind him he wasn't there- wasn't back in that glade, or running full pelt from a creature that he had burned a deep heated gash into and accidentally stirred up into a frenzy. He wasn't feeling teeth bite down into his leg, locking deep into flesh, a pulse of warm liquid heat running streams down his ankle as he yelped and fell with the force-

Wasn't shooting repeatedly at a creature that refused to let go even as its eyes dimmed, it's jaw unlocking only when it was all over- wasn't pulling his now mangled leg out of its gaping maw, kicking at a corpse to continue to pull himself away, just in case he was wrong, just in case there were more of them-

No, he wasn't there anymore. He was home, back in his home dimension. 

He may not be safe and sound here, not with the rift burning a hole beneath his feet, but he knew for certain that the creature invading his dreams tonight had not followed him here.

...It couldn't follow him here.

He groaned, running a hand down his face as he slowly climbed back into bed, the bed covers gliding softly behind him, his entire being emanating disappointed annoyance at himself. 

 _Why that of all things?_

It wasn't a creature he'd thought about in a long time. His nightmares usually involved Bill, usually involved the fate of the world- not half forgotten memories about large woodland creatures that roamed many forests throughout the multiverse. It hadn't been his first run in- nor had it been his last.

It wasn't anything special, wasn't anything particularly terrifying in the whole scheme of things, even if the dots from its needle sharp teeth still adorned his calf, a testament to his folly of the past.

 _So why..._  

Perhaps some twisted part of his brain had decided that images of things he expected to darken his mindscape were no longer nightmarish enough. Now it wanted to shock and surprise him too, jolt him unexpectedly with memories he thought were dealt with and forever remind him that even here he was never truly safe. 

Even here he could not sleep.

Sleep hadn't been an option for so long, and now even with the chance, his mind refused to listen to logic and reason and let him rest.

Ford sighed deeply, the weight of everything sitting heavily on his chest as he settled back into bed. He had to sleep, he had to figure out what to do. The last time he had become too sleep deprived in this dimension, terrible things had happened. He had been so caught up in it all he had called his _brother_  of all people to help him, he had demanded that he take his journal without thinking to explain what was going on. He had let himself be pulled into a fight, so angry, so resentful and bitter, so utterly exhausted that he just needed to let it all out, to push all the emotion of the last few sleep deprived months on to his brother who would not listen, would not help him. How had he been so out of it? To fight around the portal, to not notice the whir of it starting up? To not realise until it was too late that everything he had been trying to stop since he had learned of Bill's betrayal was happening behind his back?

Blood had been pounding in his ears, erasing every noise other than his brother's loud vicious shouts, his vision had gone red, tuning out the world around him into the pinprick that was Stan holding a lighter to his life's work.

The world had only popped back into frame again when a scream had made it through the fuzz, when the world became too clear, too real and the force of his foot against his brother's chest had accidentally had all of his weight behind it. 

He'd never meant to do that. If he'd been more with it, more awake-

If Stan had just done as he had asked he could have slept, none of this would have happened.

Ford groaned again, burying his face into the pillow as his mind spiralled. Now was not the time. Now was the time for sleep. He'd had a nightmare, that was all. It was nothing, not now he knew what it was. He just needed his mind to switch off for a few more hours and then- then he could sort things out in his head. 

The quiet darkness of the dead of night was not the time to be thinking over old memories and old arguments. They just ran around in circles, dancing and diving, each new outcome worse than the one before, sinking and sinking into malicious anger or despondent despair.

Fortunately, sleep claimed him soon enough, his eyes drooping heavily, too tired to continue the tirades that mumbled vindictively from the cracks and crevices in his mind.

~~~

The dreams did not return, or if they did, he did not remember them on waking.

That didn't stop the cold scaled snakes however.

His eyes snapped open, what felt like a few minutes later but could have been hours, a rush of adrenaline sparking as he felt something move beneath the covers. He yanked them away entirely, throwing them to the floor next to him and watched a multitude of black shapes slink in between the folds, twisting and writhing, some scuttling back to hide away in the creases.

He flicked on the reading light beside him, the one he had forgotten in his panic earlier.

His benign blanket stared back at him, no slithering shapes alighting its features.

He was so tired, it almost seemed betrayed for being thrown so haphazardly in a heap to the floor.

He shook himself, trying to dispel the fog that loomed over him. His exhaustion clouded his judgement, covering him in a heavy shroud that made his entire body feel listless and unyielding as he stretched out of bed to pick up his blanket once more. He tried to shake it for good measure as he caught hold of it, pulling it tiredly towards him and inspecting it with half-lidded eyes, just to be sure that once again it had all been a figment of his imagination.

 _Of course it was._

A soft whine of irritation left him as he fell back into place, pulling the blanket up in a half-hearted attempt at cover himself as he curled back into a ball and promptly fell back to sleep.

~~~

The next tendril caught around his arm, hanging off the side of his bed.

The feel of ice cold scales burning marks into his wrist dragged him from his fitful slumber.

Ford flinched back, yanking his arm away as he propelled himself towards the wall and away from the empty space beyond his bed. It was a wonder he didn't crack his head, with the force he launched himself, breathing heavily as his eyes scanned the darkness, body on high alert for a threat as his hand wrapped around his wrist in an urge to comfort himself.

_There's nothing there- there was nothing there. You were just dreaming, just-_

_But what if you weren’t?_

A nervous wheeze left his lungs at the thought, his throat tightening as the dregs of sleep still scratched at his eyes, each blink a painful reminder of the rest he so desperately needed. He cautiously leaned forward, hand flicking the lamp on once more, and bathing him in a small warm circle of light.

The darkness seemed to shift away from it, the looming thoughts retreating back behind, albeit, exhausted logic.

He was home. This was his room.

He knew what monsters lurked in this dimension.

He let his eyes wander around the room, pulled up the covers just to be sure and chanced a quick glance under the bed.

Relief bubbled up as his quick investigation found no danger to speak of, though a lingering shame pushed it down as quickly as it rose, a hollow disappointment all that remained between the two as he softly let his head fall back to the wall.

He sighed, scrubbing at his face. 

He was so tired.

A small choked off laugh escaped him as he sat there, a humourless smile twisting on his face.

After all, how was it that he was probably getting more sleep than he had in a very long time and yet he felt less well rested than he had in years?

Each jolting wake up his mind had given him seemed to sap all the strength the intermittent sleep had afforded him.

Perhaps sometimes, it really wasn't worth trying.

Perhaps sometimes, running on less was actually better for him.

After all, at least that way he didn't have to deal with this. This endless cycle of trying and failing.

But even as he thought it, his body began to sag, began to list back towards his pillow as he curled up tight against the wall.

At least for tonight, he would continue to try.

~~~

The cycle continued. 

By the fifth attempt- or was it the sixth? he'd lost count at some point- he gave up. He was already standing, breathing heavily, his bed in shambles from his most recent jump start to the land of the living. 

Each time he had awoken with another lurching jolt, filled with adrenaline fuelled panic, his mind racing ahead of him that he was in  _danger_  and he needed to  _move_.

Each time the light flickering beside him or over head had cast reasoning and doubt across what he had thought he'd seen and felt.

Each time he felt more exhausted than before he'd gone to sleep in the first place.

He let the pillow that had been tightly clenched between his fists drop to the floor, heard it hit with a soft noise that for some reason annoyed him more than it soothed. He wanted to throw things, break them, rage at his own head for ruining its own attempts at sleep.

It needed the sleep the most! Why was it thwarting his every attempt?

If he hadn't been so bone weary, he might have actually thought about it, might have tried to break something, shout and scream until his voice was hoarse, worked himself to the bone until his body gave up the ghost and finally let him sleep in blissful black slumber.

As it was though, his arms felt like noodles, too ungainly and uncoordinated to even attempt damaging anything without damaging himself at the same time.

_Though perhaps I can..._

He shook the thought before it could really gain headway, spinning towards the door at the same time as he snatched his glasses from the side. Any ideas he had on  _making_  himself go back to sleep would be dangerous at best, especially when his mind was mostly working on autopilot and sluggish at best. There was no telling what dangers he could put himself in, how he might harm himself- or worse, leave him open to a certain dream demon that he had been sure to keep at bay for far too many years to slip up now.

No, until the rift had been dealt with, and the portal sealed for good, he would have to deal with normal, natural forms of sleep aid.

Which for the time being, meant proving to his brain that he really was home, the shack was very much safe and perhaps getting a much needed glass of water.

He stumbled through the dark house, ignoring the faint glimmer and muffled voices from the living room as he walked past, even though he was sure he had heard his name called just as he took long strides past the doorway. His mind was probably just playing more tricks on him, and either way, he was still deep in thought, mind looping in on itself as he tried to figure out how to get himself to sleep until an acceptable time in the morning.

The water helped to soothe his thoughts, cold and clearing, it pushed some of the fog from his mind as he glanced around the kitchen and let his mind settle into a low hum of thought. It wasn't enough though, his room still not a place he wanted to return to as he softly tapped his nails against the glass, eyes taking note of the early hour on the ticking clock, following the second hand as it made its slow rotation.

_Perhaps some fresh air..._

He nodded to himself, downing the rest of his drink and leaving the glass there as he walked purposefully to the front door. He opened it as quietly as possible, glancing up the stairs and wincing at every creak before it was open just enough for him to slip outside.

He took a deep breath, body relaxing even more as the breeze blew through him, mild and cooling to heated skin. The world was dark, but unremarkable, just as he had left it earlier in the day.

There was nothing out of the ordinary, hushed and quiet as the world slept on, waiting for dawn to break.

He found himself shuffling forward, checking over the barrier that he had set a few days before, relaxing even more as the almost imperceptible line shimmered, proving that it had not been broken.

He was safe.

Bill couldn't get to him.

Nothing could get to him.

He fell back, leaning heavily against the wall of the Shack, his frayed nerves and even more broken thoughts finally giving him a moment of peace as he stood there watching the world go by.

It was all in his head, nothing more.

At least for tonight.

"Ford?"

Ford blinked as a gruff voice spoke behind him, one far less gritty with sleep than he would expect for the early hours of the morning. He grunted back, too tired to ask what he was doing up or if he had woken him. Too out of it to care or move really as his eyes stayed locked to the ever shifting trees ahead of him. 

"You OK?"

He frowned at the question. Of course he wasn't. What would he be doing up at this time of night if he was OK? He felt like biting the words back at him, rolling his eyes and snarling that  _of course not. My own head won't let me sleep._

But it didn't seem worth it. Not over a nightmare.

And even if it was, the only thing he managed to do in response was a half-hearted, one armed shrug, still refusing to look over at him and make this moment real.

"You want to talk about it?" 

_Maybe I can help._

The words rang out between them, unspoken, but obviously there in the hesitance of the question.

Or maybe it was just nerves, jittering and fretful at how he might respond.

Ford blinked, finding the notion far more plausible and reasonable than the former, frustration fizzling up at the entire situation he had found himself in, at the realisation that the burning gaze, the man stood awkwardly behind him, really was the root of all his problems.

"I don't know." He turned slowly, eyes finding Stan's and feeling a modicum of satisfaction as his brother flinched back from the gaze. "Do you want to hear about the other side of the portal and the things I encountered there?" 

There was a threat behind his bared teeth, daring him to ask, daring him to deny how terrible it must have been just so he could tear all the walls down around him. He wanted to watch him falter, wanted him to realise why he couldn't be grateful for anything when it was him that had put him through it all in the first place.

He was just so tired, so angry- and whose fault was it anyway that these memories were haunting him every time he closed his eyes?

His sleep deprived mind closed down on logic then, closed off reasoning and guilt. He knew the part that he had played in everything that had happened between them, he knew what befriending Bill had done- but in that moment none of that mattered.

Because Stan was there to take the brunt of it. 

Because he needed someone to blame, other than himself. Other than Bill who was now so far out of his reach that he'd never be able to get vengeance on him. 

He needed something- someone to be angry at.

And he was too exhausted, too blinded, to see how unfair that was.

"No."

Ford blinked as his brother looked away from him, eyes to the floor as his shoulders sagged. 

"No, I guess I don't."

And just like that the anger dissipated, swallowed up and crumbling to dust under the waves of fatigue that had begun to bombard his body.

Stan wouldn't give him a fight. Another score against him.

Why couldn't he just snarl and snap back, give as good as he got- like the last few times they'd spoken?

Why did he choose now of all times to take a step back and accept his harsh words without even trying to defend himself?

Ford bit back a curse, a dark grumbling sigh echoing out of him as he pushed back through the door Stan was holding with minimal effort, his brother fumbling quickly out of his way as if scared of making the situation worse.

Somehow that in itself did.

Ford couldn't help the pulse of disgusted shame worming its way through his chest at the twisted rush of satisfaction he had gotten from hurting his brother only moments before, at how Stan seemed to back away from him in a way that seemed so distant and strange from his usual bravado. But the heat from his anger still shifted below the surface, cooling yes, but into a cold hard shell that left him in a paradoxical situation.

Disappointed and self-disgusted, but unable to admit defeat, unable to apologise.

Cold and indifferent, numbing to the outside world even as his mind hissed and reproached him for the heavy handed approach. 

He chanced one more look at his brother before turning on his heel and walking back towards his room.

"I didn't think so."

It was only when he was halfway to his room that he looked back once more, noting his brother still staring down at the ground as the front door swung shut beside him.

 _Perhaps he'll stop asking me to thank him now._  

The grim satisfaction returned, his body shifting into autopilot as his mind began to wander back towards sleep, shuffling back to his room without another thought.

If he had stayed there for only a moment longer, he might have seen his brother shake himself. Might have seen him sigh, a sad, hurt sound before quietly walking back into the living room instead of up towards his bedroom.

If he had stayed for a moment longer, he might have wondered what his brother was doing up at this time of night.

Might have wondered if he had trouble sleeping too, what things kept him awake when he now had no reason not to stay in bed all night long.

But he hadn't stayed and so he didn't.

And as usual for the both of them by that point, they continued to deal with their problems the only way they knew how.

...Alone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Waking up 4-5 times on the same night thinking your bed is overrun with snakes = not fun at all. I have no context as to why I dreamt that up that night unlike Ford though, just kept waking up and jumping out of bed. ^^;;  
> Heads up- definitely a nicer dream than ones that’ll follow. I thought I might as well use some of them in my writing haha.


	2. It crawls across my ceiling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise at some point there’ll be comfort in this fic but… not yet. Sorry. As before: I’m not sure what to tag warnings as but this is to do with nightmares/bad memories and the fallout from them so- I hope that’s warning enough.  
> They’re partially based on real life nightmares so you know. I tried to do them justice. (Warning again: This ones probably a lot worse than the first, it was to me at least. Body horror.)

He'd never really liked sleeping.

He couldn't put words or apply reason to that knowledge, couldn't say why or when exactly that feeling might have started.

All he knew was that something deep inside of him told him that sleep wasn't always kind and that if he could get away with as little as possible and still run full steam ahead the next day then really that was the best way to live his life.

That simple, strange 'fact' had left him puzzled that first night. When he had been confused and left staring at an unfamiliar room that he had been led to and told was his own. His eyes had skimmed an unmade bed, a myriad of unremarkable and unrecognisable items scattered across the slightly broken floor, and had no urge nor want to try and rest.

The kids that had led him there had told him he was lucky the room was still intact enough to use, eyes wide and searching as if hoping for some spark, some wordless noise that somehow proved he knew what they were talking about.

Unfortunately, he didn't.

He had no idea who they were, or what they were talking about. There were familiar names, familiar snippets fluttering around his head, but when he went to grasp on tight to them, they were snatched abruptly away again, disappearing back into the ether for him to struggle to find once more.

It was exhausting, a constant to and fro, a mix of knowing and not knowing and everything in between.

And yet still- he knew that some part of him did not want to sleep.

He had ignored that knowing but unknown voice in the end, dusted debris from the bed, shoved all the meaningless trinkets and clothes aside without much thought, no sentiment bubbling up as he glanced over them, and promptly passed out, curled up amongst the blankets as if the warmth would keep the world at bay if only for the night.

He almost wished he'd listened to the voice, in the end.

But the kids, and that man who looked so like him, were already upset enough at the fact that he didn't remember them. They were doing everything they could to try and coax those memories back, as well as look after him. It was almost frustrating. The amount of coddling they were doing... but he couldn't really say that he wasn't enjoying it. 

That same voice, the one that beat in time with his heart, seemed to ache at the loving nurture they were raining down on him, even if he didn't understand why or think he deserved it in anyway. 

But if they were willing to try so hard- then the least he could do was try his best as well. 

He'd remember them if it was the last thing he did, if only to see the smiles that the small twins gave to their scrapbook photos of him, to the real him instead.

If only to see the old man stop looking at him quite so sadly, a look that didn't truly fade even when the kids told them of their summer adventures, almost as if the stories were new to him too instead of reminiscences.

And if that meant making sure he got a good night’s sleep to keep himself awake and fresh for the next day of memory hunting- then he would just have to do that.

Even the strange voice inside his head that seemed to know things without giving him the context, didn't seem familiar with where that notion had led him.

His nights so far had been filled with fog, flitting creatures and people- silhouettes that turned away from him whenever he ran to them. They slipped through his fingers like water if he managed to get hold of them, or burst into blue flames whenever he tried to get close enough to connect the dots.

Sometimes they just walked away from him into the white fuzz that seemed to engulf his brain throughout the days and nights, left him running and running to catch up to shadows that he would never fully grasp. There was a painful yearning in his chest, a deep pang of remorse whenever they walked away from him, steps slow but unfaltering, forever out of reach, as if his memories were abandoning him all over again, night after night.

It hurt to wake up, his eyes burning and his throat closing up against the wave of emotion that engulfed him, arm still outstretched and a yell of a name he couldn't quite remember resting on the tip of his tongue never to be released.

He was glad when the kids became more than just 'the kids'. When the words 'Mabel' and 'Dipper' surfaced from the fog and stuck like glue to the inside of his skull, bringing forth small snippets of memory, like half second video snapshots, everywhere he looked within the house. He was even more grateful when the smallest shadows that had seemed so hurt and betrayed by him vanished from his nights from that point on. 

The memories came in waves from then on. The looming building that materialised when the fog grew thin, soon became the Shack, where the shattered remnants of his memories lingered and so far had held themselves together. He felt like he had Soos to thank for that, in life and in dream, keeping things in order, each night’s sleep a patchwork print of what he had achieved in real life, trying to make the Shack whole for him once more. 

His brother came next, though not in his entirety. He was sure that there were still younger versions of him milling unseen inside his dreams, an edge to them that reminded him of the older man but couldn't quite be fully grasped like the fresher memories, their emotional states not in keeping with the man that now stood by his side. He knew that something had happened, something big that the voice inside of him told him he didn't want to know about, and Ford seemed to emanate a similar air whenever he tried to bring it up, and so there was still a void, a large gap between childhood and adulthood that had yet to be discovered.

He knew that he had been alone at one point, knew strange facts about strange places across the country, knew he was banned from states but shrugged when asked what he had done or how he knew about the underbelly of many a city across vast expanses of road. He had no words or stories for the random facts that slipped from his lips, usually late at night when the kids were already asleep and a filter he hadn't even known about fell away. But more than anything- what he didn't know was how he had gotten himself into those strange circumstances in the first place.

The voice in his head had laughed at that. 

_How? It's what we do best. Getting ourselves into terrible situations._

He couldn't say he disagreed with that sentiment.

After all, he'd somehow managed to forget everyone and everything important to him- and if that didn't sum up how terrible he probably was at making decisions, he didn't know what was. 

He didn't say any of this out loud though. That sad faraway look always came back to Ford's face whenever he half jokingly blamed himself for his lack of recollection. Not to mention if he even so much as hinted at negative thoughts about himself around the kids they looked scandalised and took it upon themselves to prove whatever point they felt needed proving again at that moment.

Like he said... it was nice, really, all this coddling. Even if he didn't always believe them.

But their words didn't stop his mind from stumbling over what should be easy memories. Didn't stop that lurch of guilt and confusion at not being able to visualise his parents faces or where they had lived as kids. He remembered the beach. He remembered the boat. He remembered the smell of the sea, the sound of rushing waves and squawking gulls and feeling of sand between his toes.

But their home? The place he grew up in and must have lived in for many years?

There was just a cold, dark hole in the street where he was sure it was meant to sit.

He remembered shouting, and a slamming door. He remembered the cold burn of pavement beneath his palms and a lurch in his gut like the world had fallen apart around him. 

...He didn't tell anyone about any of that and usually by the morning, with the warm glow of dawn flickering through the gaps in his curtains, he wasn't even sure whether it was really a memory or just a dream trying to tie the strands of his life back together into something cohesive and easily understandable.

And so instead, time and time again he chased after the ghosts inside his head, yearning for answers to questions he didn't even know he had. He found himself running rings around the Shack or sprinting deep into the woods until he became too lost to find his way back out again, let alone continue following whatever spectre had led him out so far. 

It was infuriating, desperate fear and bitter anger racing up to greet him as the fog vanished for barely a moment, casting his mind and the world in stark relief-

Only for him to wake up before he could make heads or tails of it.

And then there were the other figures, the ones that didn't always appear like the others every night. The ones that didn't seem hurt by him, didn't turn away as if saddened that he didn't remember him. They almost seemed... indifferent, uncaring. Colder too, an ice cold shiver slipping down his spine whenever he noticed one of them was there with him and couldn't be sure just how long they had been there, quiet and still, in the gloom.

They loomed in the distance. Dark shadows that seemed to stand just on the edge of his peripheral, always watching, always observing. Most of them, whenever he turned to try to see them better, continued to stay just out of reach, visible only in fleeting glances on the fringes of his consciousness. They let him spin himself dizzy, superimposed on his eyelids when he blinked but never truly there, never actually caught, locked in his sights where he might be able to recognise them.

Others were just as unnerving, clusters of individuals that scattered to the winds when he turned, slipped between trees for him to catch sight of later only when he felt that eyes were watching him once more. They followed him, whispered strange words that he couldn't quite catch, and stopped whenever they knew he was trying to listen in.

They almost seemed amused by his torment, a malicious air about them that made him tug his coat around him, made the fog feel like snow that tugged and pulled at his feet.

Sometimes it felt like the figures didn't want him to remember, that this had been inevitable in their eyes and for the better. They fed the voice inside his head that told him this was all his own fault and stirred up that ever present lingering feeling of shame and guilt that didn't quite make sense to him.

Other times they felt like they wanted him to keep trying to catch them, wanted him to finally beat them at their games, only for him to realise that the victory wasn't something he'd ever wanted in the first place. That knowing was actually worse than this fog of forgetfulness.

Both notions didn't help him in the midst of his dreams, their very presence making him want to flee from them, to run as fast and as far away as possible. Another push pull against the aching yearn to know everything he could even if it hurt him.

The coldest spectre was the worst though. Disapproval and scorn radiating off of it in equal measures.

He could admit, that with that particular figure, he hadn't even had the courage to try to turn and face them, eyes cast down as he felt it pulse at the corners of his mind, daring him to come close.

And through it all, he couldn't be quite sure whether they were even memories, or whether they were just figments of his real, usual dreams, poking through the cloudy haze. 

The demons that he had carried with him all along but were never truly there. Not real in the same sense as Mabel, or Dipper, or Ford.

...He wasn't sure which interpretation he preferred.

But either way, they seemed important, even if he wasn't sure he wanted to greet them just yet.

He'd rather stick to chasing the figures that seemed to spark a desperation deep inside his core to remember them, hoping that the urge meant something concrete, and wasn't just a fool’s errand to forever have him chasing impossible dreams and hopes every night.

Hoped the fact that most of his efforts had been futile didn't also mean that he would be forever stuck knowing there were important people in his life he would never remember, ever again.

That thought always had him shaking, just a bit, had Ford asking him if he was OK and distracting him without even knowing what it was that terrified the man so much. He was grateful that he didn't ask, didn't know what he'd do if the man confirmed his fears that it was a plausible possibility.

He just... tried not to go down that trail of thought anymore, especially not when he was alone.

It didn't lead him anywhere good.

Somehow the dark shadows brought that thought on more and more whenever they appeared though. Spectres of times he might be better off without, if they even existed at all. But he knew, deep down, past all the nervous fear and hesitation, that even if he didn't want to remember them, all his memories were important in making him the man that he was today.

The man that his family seemed so desperate to get back.

And it was with that thought, that his dream self made a split second decision that night.

He had fallen into bed, exhausted and disappointed at himself. Irritated by his uselessness, of being unable to help or answer questions no matter how hard he tried without the help of photos or hesitant probing stories. They were happy with him, they were congratulating him and pointing out how far he'd come but he still didn't  _remember_.

Not everything.

He couldn't help them with the memories that none of them were present for.

And they said it was OK. But it  _wasn't_.

It wasn't OK that he still had gaps in his childhood. It wasn't OK that he didn't remember family members or where each and every scar on his aged body had come from. It wasn't OK that he had seemingly lived a long strange life but had less memories than the youngsters.

...It wasn't OK even if all the memories he had were full of warm summers days with the kids, not when that voice in his head still told him he didn't deserve them, and he didn't know  _why_.

And so, with those thoughts spinning around and around in his head until he'd finally sunk into an uneasy sleep, his dream self had taken the initiative.

A lone shadowed figure stood at the edge of his peripheral once more. Without a thought he kept it there, in the same spot, never turning towards or away from it.

And he started to walk.

He didn't know if it was a worry or a relief when the silhouette stayed put, got closer and closer as he walked towards it without looking at it face on.

It was only when he was within reaching distance that he lunged forward, grasping on to solid flesh and bone.

He snapped his gaze up when he was close enough, met a suddenly familiar face and a similarly terrifyingly familiar twisted grin.

And within an instant the memories flooded back, his mind lurching into wakefulness in a stutter of fear that for once left his mouth in the shape of a name.

" _Rico?_ "

~~~

A lead ball settled in Stan's chest as his eyes opened, his heart sinking darkly through the bed. A now familiar room spread out before him, the ramshackle assortment of barely held together furniture overlaid with wobbling piles of items that were apparently his own, now split into things he recognised and things he didn't. None of that really mattered though, not in that moment. There was no gratifying sentimental muffling to the particular recollections that now infested his skull. His focus remained inwards, tired bleary eyes dancing across the room, but in truth, following his winding trail of memories, lost in a daze that fell between sleep and wakefulness, struggling through the quagmire he had unwittingly sunk himself into. 

He shook himself, trying desperately to pull away from the dismal. disturbing thoughts. He gave a soft relieved sigh that at least he was awake and didn't have to relive those memories without a choice in the matter, mused over whether he should talk to Ford about the memories in the morning or whether that was worse than walking through the memories alone in the daylight hours. 

Either way- it wasn't something he should try and think about now, not unless he wanted the memories to spiral out of control and for the darkness to seep in through the cracks they created.

Instead, he rolled over on to his back, debating whether to try and go back to sleep-

Every thought abruptly curdled, slithering down his back in streams of shuddering fear. Any notion of relief was washed away by ice cold dread as his eyes locked to the ceiling, the air in his lungs forced out in a burst of frost.

A terrifyingly familiar face stared back at him from high above the end of his bed.

The grin was as sharp and dangerous as he remembered it in life, the eyes bright and narrowed as if deciding what best to do with him.

He remembered that expression all too well, from memories he now wished he'd never had the misfortune of recalling.

"Ri-"

The word refused to be forced out of his throat again, strangled before it could be completed. His airways constricted to a straw that made it hard to breathe through, let alone speak, as his body froze in place, locked defencelessly staring up at the monster above him. He couldn't find it in him to move, couldn't find it in him to look away. His mind blanked out on him, a frantic buzz of fear and adrenaline that refused to assist him in fathoming the horror before him.

Everything about him screamed  _wrong_ , the only coherent word running through Stan's mind, a distorted and nauseating mix of a distressing creature from Ford's journal and his shattered age old memories, twisting and bubbling beyond belief. 

Rico loomed coldly above him, half hidden in darkness, his eyes glinting like shards of glass in the moonlight cast from the window. His body was more broken and twisted than his grin as he somehow crawled across the ceiling unimpeded. He scuttled and shifted, twitching not unlike a spider, hands and feet flat to the ceiling, becoming more visible as he moved. The joints of his shoulders and legs poked through his clothing strangely, as if dislocated or removed where needed, so that his head and chest pointed downwards towards Stan.

Whatever it was above him, he wished it hadn't chosen Rico's face.

The thing shuffled ever closer, each step sending a strange jarring motion through his entire body, bringing with it the creaking, cracking sound of broken bone and groaning ligaments, making Stan unwillingly flinch. Rico, or perhaps what used to be him, still grinned his trademark toothy grin in response, one filled with pure malice, eyes shining gleefully at his obvious terror.

"Miss me, Pines?"

The words came out in a hiss, a grate of venomous yet jovial energy.

The sound set Stan's teeth on edge, like fingernails on a chalkboard, like the sudden inescapable urge to shudder.

He tried his best to ignore the urge, tried his best to school his face and jut up his chin. But the shudder still came, whipping through him like wildfire and Rico's grin grew impossibly wide, stretching and stretching as if the skin had torn from mouth to ear, exposing teeth and gum. "You can't be here."

He would have been impressed, proud even at his voice coming out without a quiver, if not for the fact that the words were barely uttered above a whisper.

The stillness to the air, the cold hush, luckily lent itself to him in that moment, Rico tilting his head to one side as if musing over his statement.

"Oh? And why's that?"

Stan gulped at the almost curious rasp, the innocent question that both of them knew the answer to and wasn't innocent at all. "Be- because you're dead. You  _died_."

There was a quiet pause as Rico seemed to ponder his response, Stan's heart returning to his chest to beat painfully against his rib cage. 

His heart stuttered, threatening to lodge in his throat as Rico's grin morphed into a vicious grimace, filled with sharp, pointed anger, his voice dripping with dark disdain.

"And whose fault exactly is  _that?_ "

"I-I-" Stan felt his throat close once again as the thing shuffled right over his bed, pulling to a halt directly above him, it's features cast in sharp, unwanted relief. There were too many teeth, visible when they shouldn't be, they glinted in the half light from the doorway, sharp and unnaturally white, saliva dripping from between them and down his chin. The strange impossibly wide grin from before now made disturbing sense as his eyes caught on the gaping hole in the side of his face, rotten flesh melting away from visible bone, leaving stark white teeth and bleeding gums for the world to see. His eyes held a dead gaze, even whilst filled with hatred and malice, like they no longer held a light of their own and could only reflect the ones around him. They were sunken into what was left of his sallow grey skin, pulled up tight from his jawline.

He looked even less like Rico with every passing second, each new discovery another lead weight in the pit of Stan's stomach. His skin seemed to stretch across the bones of his hands and feet. White ribs, to compliment his teeth, poking out from the cavern that was once his chest, a maw that crawled with a host of things Stan did  _not_  want to contemplate. He pressed back into the mattress and wished he could find his voice enough to scream, dignity and pride be damned.

" _You_  did this to me."

The words were snarled, inhuman and deadly as the creature bore down upon him. 

He couldn't find his tongue to argue, couldn't find the words.

He had been told that his silver tongue had once been his forte, that he could talk himself out of any bad situation he found himself in.

...Maybe trying to argue was just too much of a lie even for him in this moment.

He remembered. 

He didn't want to, but he did. 

And no matter how much he wished, no matter how much he desperately needed for the creature above him to be nothing more than a monster from Ford's fairy tales-

He knew deep down this was all that remained of his former associate.

No matter how broken and deformed he had become, the memories surfacing couldn't help but connect the dots, drag his eyes over the details he wanted to shy away from most.

His clothes, though bloodied and marred by yawning rips and tears, were the exact same as their last fateful meeting. 

He could feel it now, that sinking dread, that heart stopping realisation that the man before him meant for him to die that night. 

He had only been trying to protect himself.

That's all he'd ever done when it came to Rico. First getting in with him to save his skin, then trying to leave for the exact same reason. He had known the man was bad news, but you did what you had to to survive, even if it meant gambling on risks that didn't always pay off. 

Regardless, Rico had found him. And he'd had to protect himself once more.

He could feel the fabric of Rico's clothing yielding under his frantic hands, eyes following the flapping material as the memory took over his other senses. He could feel the cold press of metal against his palms as he rushed him, tried to wrestle the gun from his hands and took them both to the ground instead.

The gunshot echoed through his ears, loud and ringing it ricocheted around the room, his breath wheezing out of him in another burst of frosted fear.

He had thought he was going to die that night. 

He had thought he'd sealed his own doom when he heard the gun go off, thought he was so pumped full of adrenaline and shock that his body had yet to catch up with the fact that he'd been shot.

And then Rico had slumped on top of him, trapping him with his sudden dead weight. 

It had taken everything in him to push the man off of him, taken so much to squash down the rising bile as he saw the life drain from the man who had moments before been determined to kill him.

There was no relief in the moment, only cold, hard reality, shaking him to his core.

He'd killed him.

He'd never meant to- 

He hadn't wanted to-

Stan swallowed, a wave of nausea surfacing to the present as his eyes caught back on the gaping hole in Rico's chest.

It was larger than in his memory, spreading out and out until half of his chest cavity was exposed.

The notion led to dark thoughts he had had many a paranoid, lonely night afterwards. Waking, covered in a cold sheen of sweat to dart frantic eyes over empty car parks, ever fretful that someone else would be sent after him next. That someone would have found Rico and be coming after him for his now even more grievous crimes. As the days stretched into weeks, and then into months, with nothing at all other than the expanses of open highway before him, the nightmares didn't fade, only shifted. Tormenting him with the knowledge that he might not have been found. That his body was still in that old abandoned warehouse where he had chased him. That all manner of other things, uninterested in alerting authorities or his associates, might have found him instead. Might have feasted. The haunting image of his body took an age to slip from his nightmares, each night slowly rotting further and further into the cold stone floor, his every action leading to the horrific moment that he could never take back. 

"And now..."

Stan's eyes snapped back to Rico's face, the vicious grimace sharpening back into a smile that made his skin crawl.

"Now it's time I returned the favour."

The creaking clack of bone returned to his ears, louder than before as Rico moved away from him. Stan found that he really couldn't move then, fear overtaking his senses as he found his gaze locked to where Rico had been instead of where he was going, paralysed by some broken and childish sense of self-preservation.

If he couldn't see it then it didn't exist.

It didn't stop the sounds, the shuffling of every footfall, the groan of unused ligaments along with that ever present clacking, a noise that grew to a crescendo as Rico quickly scuttled out of view.

He could feel him in his peripheral, could gauge whereabouts he was as he continued up and over him, his presence cold and cloying in its intensity.

The world went quiet for a moment, a pregnant, stagnant pause as Stan held his breath in fearful anticipation.

And then came a solid, dull thud, directly behind his head.

In an instant Stan's body became charged, danger ripping through every particle like a fizzling drug. He shot up, propelling himself forward towards the end of the bed, stumbling quickly off of it and towards the door without a moment’s hesitation.

It was only when the bright warm light flickered on above him that he spun around, arms raised and ready to fight the thing instead of letting it any further into the house.

This thing wasn't getting anywhere near his family-

The room was empty.

Stan heaved out a lump of air, not realising he'd been holding his breath until it burst out of him in a gush of noise. His heart hammered in his eardrums, beat painfully through his neck as he tried desperately to listen for that familiar voice, for the slide and shuffle of long unused arms and legs crawling across the floor.

He bit his lip, trying his best to breathe as a cold, dispassionate laugh rang through his ears.

_"Sorry, Pines. I'm sure you understand."_

The silence ate away at him, the voice in his head ringing through clear as day. He needed the thing to appear, he needed it to get this over with, to stop hiding like a coward now that he was ready for it.

He couldn't help the pinprick of recall, the fizzling notion that made logic fly out the window as he waited, freaked out and shaking.

Because that's what Rico did. He didn't come out into the open when the playing field was fair.

He waited until just the right moment, when you least expected it- when you were finally sure that you were safe, that you had gotten away-

_"This is just business after all, nothing personal."_

Stan swallowed, the lump in his throat growing bigger as his insides squirmed. His skin seemed to crawl, ice dripping cold and wet down his spine as every minute detail about the man he had once known was thrown into sharp relief.  

It all seemed so easy to see now, a stranger looking in. A different set of eyes, finding out about Rico for the first time and pointing out all of his obvious flaws in quick succession.

How had he ever believed a word that came out of his mouth? How had he ever fallen in with him?

 _Just another one of your terrible decisions._  

Stan closed his eyes for a second, the overpowering sense of self-deprecation pulsing in a wave that took his breath away. 

He quickly pushed the thought away though, eyes snapping open once more as another louder, more primitive part of his brain shouted at him not to look away, not to give Rico the opening he was obviously waiting for. 

He paused as his eyes opened again though, doubt winding its way through his head as the blurry outline of his bed resurfaced once more, as the piles and piles of items became blobs of colour vaguely shaped like things he once owned.

 _I never put my glasses on._  

He stood up taller ever so slightly, hands lowering minutely but not enough to lose his defensive stance. Everything was still quiet, still that ordinary hush that accompanied the darkest hours of the night as his heart slowly began to sink back to a normal speed. He hesitantly shuffled forwards, followed the bleary outline of his cabinets, head tilted to peak around the edge of the bed as one hand reached for where he hoped he'd left his glasses.

Nothing.

He gulped, the empty space on the floor where he was sure Rico had dropped still seeming venomous and suspicious. 

His hands caught around cold metal and glass, a heavy sigh of relief escaping him as he quickly snatched them up and slipped them on.

Still nothing.

Stan gulped, the empty air dangerous and filled with purpose as his eyes swept the room for the monstrosity from before.

He almost didn't want to look up.

He did anyway, checked the ceiling, grabbed a weapon and checked under the bed- all for nought.

There was nothing in the room with him.

Just his own wild and twisted imagination.

He couldn't help but laugh, the sound hollow and dismal, echoing darkly off the quiet walls, as he scrubbed a hand through his hair. "J-Just a nightmare. Just a memory..." 

He felt like this was the moment his mind should agree with him. Should mock him scornfully for believing that thing was real, for not realising sooner that there was no way he'd have been able to see what had hung above him, let alone in that much detail.

But honestly, his mind seemed as hushed as the house was, cold and apprehensive and unable to relax even with the knowledge that there was no immediate danger.

"I should try and sleep..."

The words, though meant to be determined and nonchalant, came out more nervous, as if even by speaking them out loud he couldn't make the notion any more believable or his body any more willing. His feet refused to move, the bed now the most menacing piece of furniture in the room, his mouth dry and no longer willing to fake confidence as he tried and failed to push himself back to sleep.

He needed to rest. He needed to  _sleep_ , the kids would not be impressed if he couldn't keep up with them in the morning.

They'd figure it out, they were both so smart- Ford too. All three of them smarter than him and they'd realise something was the matter, probably realise he'd remembered something- and then there would be questions and fussing and- he couldn't do it to them. He couldn't let them see him like that, couldn't let them know-

_I killed a man- oh my god I killed- I didn't mean to. I didn't have a choice but still I-_

He didn't want to know what they'd think of him for these memories, he didn't want them to know how messed up his head was that even when he thought he was awake there were strange creatures scuttling around his room like they owned the place.

Dipper would probably start looking for supernatural creatures and illnesses that caused bouts of hallucinations, probably start asking for more details that Stan wasn't up for giving. He might even blame it on the memory flair up, drag that strange guy round who looked like he lived at a dump but apparently owned the biggest home in town and ask him if he'd had any similar occurrences.

He wondered abruptly, if Ford would humour the boy or whether he'd softly pull him aside and tell him that something was wired up wrong in Stan's head.

Because this was reality. And as much as his family had proved that the weird things in Ford's journal were real- this didn't feel like any of that had. 

This felt terrifying in a far more... normal sense. A figment. A phantom of his own shattered mind.

He wasn't even sure if this was the memory's fault or not, if there was something underlying beneath the recent events that gave credence to this moment.

Regardless- he shook himself, trying and failing yet again to take another step forward- none of that would matter if he could just get himself back into bed and fall back to sleep. If he could rest then the kids need never know, if he could at least have a good night’s sleep he could pretend that everything was as it should be. Sure, Ford might see through that- he seemed to be getting better at seeing through him- but he never asked until it was just the two of them, knowing full well apparently that some of his memories might not be appropriate for small ears.

So that just left the rather monumental of task of getting back into bed.

A fizzle of shameful irritation bubbled through him as his body continued to not co-operate. It was like a switch had flicked, a warning bell that his bed was no longer the safe haven it had once been. 

The shame was flushed out by cold watery fear, his body taking a much wanted step back as his brain finally caught up.

After all, now that he thought about it, he wasn't sure what was worse. The kids finding out, asking questions-

Or subjecting himself to slipping back into bed, staring back up at that same place Rico had crawled above him.

Maybe the fear was irrational, maybe it wasn't. Maybe as soon as he flicked the light back off, as soon as he slipped back into bed and took his glasses off- the thing would be there again.

And even if it wasn't, it was still there in the back of his mind, ready to slide, slimy and cold to the forefront and remind him of every single detail he had seen.

He shuddered, taking another step back and another.

Maybe he was wrong, maybe sleep really wasn't an option tonight.

His foot caught the door frame, the door swinging invitingly behind him that he grasped as an anchor as he continued to stare suspiciously into the room. It wasn't until his feet were out in the hallway that he slammed it shut quickly, let the light glow out of the cracks without a thought.

Just this once, the electricity bill be damned.

His feet took him down a familiar path, his mind tired and blank as he shuffled on autopilot, not sure how his body knew what to do in this situation but letting it take over as he made quick quiet work of the stairs. He fumbled next through the entryway, missing the groaning floorboards that might not even be there now that Soos was fixing up every breakage the Shack had after whatever disaster had torn it apart in the first place.

He finally made his way over to his familiar chair, the first thing that had caught his eye when they had brought him here and the place where they had dragged out his first few memories. It felt safe there, surrounded by family, surrounded by affection- so much better than the cold, lonely room he had entered every night since.

This room spoke of days together, of quiet moments alone and shuffling life.

The room above spoke of long sleepless nights, of overthinking and the sad dismay of time ever slowly moving on.

Suffice to say, he'd found his refuge for the night. He flopped down into the seat, sighing with relief as he sagged into it. He dragged over a blanket that had been put close by, when Mabel had decided they were stopping for the night and they should all relax for the evening, curling it around him like a safety net before without thinking his other hand grabbed the remote, turning the tv on and quickly lowering the volume to a soft hum.

His shoulders sank further, relaxing like a weight had suddenly been lifted as the tv droned, the soft sound gloriously welcome in the otherwise silent house.

He found his hand flicking through the channels, pausing on a period drama that made his nose scrunch up and his eyes dart around to make sure no one was watching him. Still, it seemed perfect for the time being, the kind of show that if anyone asked he could state there was nothing else on at this time of night, when really, if he was honest with himself, it felt like a welcome distraction from the nightmare upstairs. 

What better way to combat the bombardment of memories than getting fully immersed in a frivolous story where the only problems the characters seemed to have were lavish parties and who to marry?

...OK, he wasn't sure where the logic in all that was, but it was holding his attention, filled with life and colour, so frankly he wasn't about to complain when the dramatics slowly became less amusing and more consuming as he wondered what the leading lady would do next.

In a commercial break, when the spell of the show broke and the twitching nerves from before crept up on him once more, he found his eyes seeking out the doorway. Found himself debating whether to walk down the hallway and to the door where he knew his brother slept.

Wondered about knocking, about stuttering out the truth and asking him to keep him company.

He couldn't do it, he knew he couldn't, the guilt would eat away at him, even with the knowledge that Ford had told him to come to him if he needed help, that nothing was too big or too small an ask.

He'd told him that first night, when they'd shown him to his room to rest for the night, leaned in close so that only he could hear him, that if he ever needed to talk then his door was always open.

None of them had known what to expect of his memories returning, no one knew what would happen when the floodgates opened and his world went sideways.

He was sure that Ford would  _want_  to know about this. That he'd  _want_  to help.

He was sure if he went and knocked, his brother wouldn't mind in the least.

But deep down he also knew... that he did.

He minded.

And as much as his heart called out for comfort- for physical contact and a warm voice that told him everything would be alright- he squashed the notion down, turning back to the tv as the adverts ended and willed his mind to zone back into the pleasant bright show.

Because between the options of coping with this alone or telling his brother about Rico-

He'd rather deal with this particular nightmare alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooo- that happened. I feel mean to Stan for giving him this one.   
> For me in real life - this was a zombie’ish thing crawling across my ceiling. I actually maybe made the visual… less in some instances? Maybe? Maybe not, I just added to it with sounds. I’m still not a fan of the spot on my ceiling.   
> Definitely did the crawling where I couldn’t see it and making a loud thud as it landed behind my head though 8D thanks brain. Love you lots for that one.
> 
> But it was also the moment that after I sat up for a while getting my breathing back on track- that I have terrible eyes and theres no way I’d have seen anything on my ceiling other than a blur, let alone all that... detail.
> 
> So yeah you guys get to share because I might as well use the horror for something mildly worthwhile xxx
> 
> I also promise that comfort is coming for these broken teacups - just not until the last chapter.


	3. It lurks and lingers in the darkness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter before comfort happens. As before, warnings for panic and peril.

Ford groaned as he woke up from a disturbed slumber.

It wasn't the first night it had happened, nor did he assume it would be the last.

The nightmares had only gotten worse since Weirdmaggedon. He'd hoped that wouldn't be the case. Hoped his anxious, nervous doubts would finally leave him be, knowing that Bill had been defeated once and for all. He'd hoped that the stress of the rift, the stress of knowing that at any second, the smallest crack in the glass of his defences would lead to the worlds untimely demise would lift from his shoulders like an unwelcome weight once they had succeeded. Once they had won.

Because they had won.

They had done it. They had beaten Bill, locked him away, melted him into oblivion inside Stan's mind. All his minions had been dragged back through the rift, every molecule of unnatural weirdness whisked back through and restoring their, albeit strange, town back to the way it was before.

Well... mostly back to the way things were before.

The Shack had suffered a lot of damage, a husk of it's former self. From what Ford had later heard, they had used so much of it to rescue him it was no wonder it hadn't been restored along with the rest of the town. It made his heart sink to think about now. He'd hated what his home had become, what his brother had reduced his life's works too, but now... Now that it had gone, ripped apart all for his sake... Reduced to rubble, nothing left to show of everything his brother had achieved over thirty years...

It seemed so small, so insignificant against the fate of the world. If he held them up against one another he could logically tell himself this was how things had to be, that it was a small price to pay, especially in regards to other prices they had had to pay.

...So why did it hurt so much? Why even now did his mind point out the inconsistencies? The empty spaces where things used to be that no longer existed? 

Why had watching his family walk back into the derelict remains made his stomach sink, falling through the floor before continuing to sink far below the earth? Why had his heart lodged in his throat and his eyes threatened to water as his brother had stumbled through the broken front door and made his haphazard way over to a familiar chair, covered in debris?

...Perhaps it was because of what else it all seemed to stand for.

Watching his family had seemed like listening to a familiar song through a radio that refused to be tuned. White noise clouded every beat and hum with crackles of distortion until the name of the song sat on the tip of his tongue, just barely recognizable if he listened closely enough.

But things- houses, businesses, exhibits- they could all be remade. In fact, there were so many people happy to help, so many townspeople doing everything they could to make sure the building was restored to it's former glory.

So many people who cared. As much as it hurt that it had been destroyed in the first place, that horrible twisting guilt that in hindsight made him wish he'd never said those hurtful things, he was grateful and humbled by just how many people wanted- no,  _needed_ \- to help get the Mystery Shack back up and running.

So many people who needed to help get  _him_  back on his feet again.

Because the Shack wasn't all that had not returned to it's former glory.

Stan had been lost too.

Well, not lost perhaps. Not entirely. He was still with them, just... not himself. 

 

Everything that made him him had been burned away, melted along with Bill inside his own skull, all in an attempt to save the rest of them, to fix his mistakes and save the world.

His brother had sacrificed everything but his life, though Ford was sure he would have given that too if the moment had called for it.

 

And that was a much harder pill to swallow. A much harder notion to struggle through than a building that could be replaced- rebuilt, and reshaped.

He wasn't sure the same could be said for Stan's memories.

It seemed to have amped up his nightmares even more. Instead of their success giving him a reprieve from restless nights, the sacrifices had only twisted them further. An anxious fizzle of pain buzzed through his nerves even whilst he slept, the sudden jolting realisation that Stan had done everything he could to bring him home safe and sound, that he had spent thirty years of his life doing that no matter what the consequences were. That he had risked everything to fix his mistakes and take Bill down with him. 

That it didn't matter who had started what in the end because Stan had decided he was going to finish it for both of them.

 

And he had. Bill was gone.

But so was Stan.

 

It was hard enough to even get to sleep. The spiralling thoughts that took him down, deeper and deeper in the dead of night, kept him blinking up at the ceiling, willing his brain to stop thinking because there was nothing he could do, not then, not whilst the rest of the house slept. In fact he wouldn't be able to help with anything at all unless he got some rest and yet still his brain went on, thought after thought, snapping through his synapses and ignoring his pleas to think of something else, to stop just for a peaceful moment.

He hated the quiet. The dark silence when everyone else slept, when the house no longer felt like a home filled with his family and instead closed in around him, hissing out that  _none of this would have happened if not for-_

And it  _hurt_. God, did it hurt to realise in hindsight that Stan had always,  _always_  been by his side. That everything he had done had been for him. That he would never have intentionally sabotaged him, and that condemning him for the rest of his life for something a child had done-  _barely seventeen_ \- it was hardly fair. People messed up, time and time again. He could admit that he had made more mistakes than most, and more grievous ones for that matter.

But most people didn't get kicked out for that. Most people had a chance to redeem themselves.

And it all flooded back, all those misgivings. If only he had been less sleep deprived, if only he could have  _thought_ when he called his brother to his aid ten years later. His brother had come running, only to be told to leave again with an item he had no prior knowledge about. He had no idea why Ford was so stressed, he had no idea what mess he'd gotten himself into and Ford had just expected him to jump when he told him to. Had expected him not to question it- as if he himself wouldn't have questioned everything if it had been the other way around!

If he had just sat Stan down, told him everything- even an abridged version, a terrible research partner who was ruining his life and trying to steal his life's work, someone who wished to use the knowledge for horrific reasons instead of what it had been intended for- then maybe he would have been more understanding, maybe he would have come up with other options, answers they both could have discussed and ironed out.

Had he really expected Stan to just trudge back out into the snow with his journal? To leave him after their strange reunion without a backwards glance?

...He wasn't even sure anymore. It felt so long ago. He'd thought it had been so fresh in his mind all these years, his anger and disappointment colouring the memory into realistic flesh whenever it fizzled back to the surface. 

But now he could see that all his anger had done was distort it, a hollow image he played out time and time again, coloured the emotions into bright sparks of bitter betrayal and frustration and blurred out all the details into ash and smoke with every retelling. 

He didn't even really remember making the decision to contact his brother, not anymore. But his musings so many years later and with more warmth behind them, were sadly heartened by the thought that maybe, just maybe, even then his subconscious had known who he could count on in his hour of need. That even after what had been such a betrayal when they were younger, his brain had still told him that Stan was who he should reach out to for help.

The strange bittersweet warmth the notion brought forth, quickly shrivelled up and died, cold shame clawing where it had lain until nothing but bloody ice remained.

After all, he had ruined that chance. After ten years of nothing his brother had still answered that call- and how had he shown his gratitude? By telling him to leave again. By telling him it was the first worthwhile thing he'd have ever done in his life.

Really, as much as he'd hoped for inner peace now that the world had been saved, he knew deep down that it was little wonder that the opposite had occurred. 

It was like a switch had been flicked, a myriad of different voices that had been squashed and ignored over the years bursting out of the dam he'd hidden them behind to flood his head with everything he didn't want to think about.

So many what ifs and could haves/ should haves occupied his mind now, so many more than before Weirdmaggedon. Everything had been so black and white before. Everything had made sense before. Stan had been in the wrong, he had always been right about him, it had just been so plain and simple. Over and over again, throughout their lives his brother had been to blame, and he had been right at every turn. He'd given Stan chances that he had then ruined. Sure, even then he'd known he had some part to play in it all but really if Stan had only  _listened_ , if Stan had only taken a step back and  _thought_  about it all, then maybe things could have changed for the better. The onus had always been on Stan, what he could and should have done, and the responsibility had almost never lay with himself.

Now it was all so different and strange. Everything was a swirl of grey, a pattern of bad decisions and terrible accidents that led them to where they were now.

He sometimes couldn't tell whether he had muddied the waters with the new perspective, or brought all the things he'd never noticed before into sharp relief.

But the subconscious knife to his gut wasn't any of that, the one that twisted and turned and made his sleep less than peaceful. He could pinpoint where things went wrong between them, could pinpoint all the dominoes that fell as they trekked their way through their lives and honestly, the grey at least gave him some relief. He wasn't entirely to blame, some things happened that you just couldn't change, and the others - well they had both been teenagers, barely adults, unreasonable and quick to anger. He had lost his chance to get out of their little town, to show the world what he could do, what he could achieve if only given the chance- he was allowed to be angry at that moment. And Stan? Stan had been scared of the future, scared of where he was headed and that everything he had pinned his hopes on was slipping between his fingers- and that had been allowed too. 

They had just been kids. Kids made mistakes. Kids didn't think things through, didn't think to talk about what was bothering them until it was too late because that's what they'd been taught, that was how the world worked as far as they knew.

_Boys would be boys. Boys didn't cry._

_Men kept their emotions close to their chest._

As much as he could see how wrong that had all been now, he could reconcile with that knowledge, reconcile with the past and know that they had both made mistakes.

But there was one thing he couldn't accept. One thought that swirled inside his core, the one that he pushed away again and again whenever it reared its ugly head, and instead tried his best to focus on helping his brother return to them once more. Tried his best to do whatever he could to alleviate the vicious venom that dripped from the voice inside his skull.

And that was the simple and undeniable truth: That if he hadn't been tricked by Bill in the first place, his brother would never have had to lose his memory to defeat him.

It lingered, in the back of his mind, ready and waiting for him to let down his guard. A poisonous seed that blossomed in the darkness. Every step back in his brothers recollection, every defeated and irritated sigh or blank guilty stare, watered it just a little bit more. Stan's memories were coming back in leaps and bounds, but it didn't stop him from wanting to be himself again faster. Ford knew it was for the sake of the kids- Stan had always hated disappointing them and even in this state he wanted nothing more than to make them happy, wanted nothing more than to be who they needed him to be.

And every time he saw Stan falter, the knife dug that little deeper.

He was sure Stan saw it, sure he realised that it hurt when he didn't remember because he tried his best to laugh it off, tried his best not to show how it was affecting him as well.

And Ford knew it must be, of course it must affect him too. He couldn't bear to think about it all, even with his skull so full of buzzing thoughts as his mind ran once more through every detail in his memories, he would never wish for a blank slate, couldn't begin to dream of a numb void. Every time his thought process even so much as  _insinuated_ that ignorance at this point would be bliss, everything inside him shut down, snapping every trailing thread in it's tracks.

And yet Stan carried on, as if it were them that were bearing the brunt of all of this, as if he was better off than them.

He had even apologised when the twins were out of the way, a quiet hesitant tone that didn't fit him and made Ford pause, not knowing if he'd even really heard it.

But then he'd repeated himself and that had been worse.

Stan shouldn't be apologising to him. Not  _him_. He shouldn't be apologising to the person who-

And yet he kept doing it. Over and over again. Apology after apology.

Ford swallowed down the lump in his throat at the notion. That his brother was asking for forgiveness for something he had done to him, for something he could do nothing about and yet was trying his best to push through. 

Really, with all of that on his mind- it was little wonder he still had nightmares.

Though, he wasn't completely sure if he actually dreamt anymore. It was always a blur of colours and nonsensical broken images when he woke up, remnants that quickly vanished back into the ether as he jumped up, startled and covered in a cold sweat, his body shaking with sparking nerves that took an age to dissipate, but at what he didn't know.

He could guess what the dreams had been about, was partially glad that his brain didn't make him remember them in vivid detail. The images that haunted him whenever he closed his eyes would be enough to give anyone nightmares- gun in hand, his brother's prone body before him as he prepared to do something he knew he would never be able to forget, never be able to take back, a decision that would haunt him for the rest of his days.

Things would be better, once Stan remembered everything- then he could talk to him about that decision properly, could discuss everything in length and apologise even if it meant Stan laughing and telling him off.

He could hear it now, that bark of surprised laugh.

" _What are you talking about, Sixer? It was my idea!"_

Until he was back though, the thoughts lingered and swirled, a dark ever present guilt that couldn't be completely forced away.

Because Stan wasn't completely with them either.

And so the two sat in limbo, never truly out of his thoughts but ever so slightly out of his reach.

It was exhausting really, an ever present push pull motion inside his very skull.

He sighed as he sat up, the buzzing of his brain back in full force, his body tired and bored of the repetitive nature that his nights had become.

First there was the jolting dream that wouldn't stay with him, and then next... 

"I know you're not real." Ford mused the thought out loud, let the words sit heavily in the silent air around him.

He didn't feel the need to grab his glasses, or scuttle quickly to the light like he had on nights before.

He was growing too used to the strange assortment of creatures that were infecting that moment between sleep and wakefulness. He hardly ever woke up to an empty room anymore. An infestation of shadows that only made themselves known in the dead of night.

Tonight, it bubbled in the corner of the room, just on his peripheral. Shifting and changing, an eldritch horror that he couldn't quite describe or distinguish, especially without looking at it directly. It overtook the cabinet he had there, grew up and up until it reached the ceiling like some monstrous potted plant. But it buzzed and crackled, gurgling as it moved and grew, long tangling vines, thorns that moved and clicked, changing to hooked claws and back again, ever shifting, ever growing, pulsing intermittently. He couldn't even distinguish a colour, reds and blacks and greens morphing and flowing, ever changing as it swayed in a non-existent breeze. And yet in another moment of trying and failing to ignore its presence, he wasn't sure it was plant matter at all, just a fizzling block of colour and sharp spikes just waiting for him to acknowledge it. And he knew he could, he knew that if he looked at it, it would come into frame, come into focus, reveal itself for what it really was- but doing so would give it power. Doing so would make it more real than he knew it was.

Because it  _wasn't_  real. It was just another figment. Just another nightmare after a long string of nightmares.

And frankly - he was far too tired of them all to be scared of, what amounted to, a large potted plant from some corner of the multiverse finding its way into his bedroom.

He scrubbed at his eyes as he stood up, still refusing to even glance at it, taking the initiative to prove to himself it wasn't real and also that he was no longer afraid of these strange anomalies that had taken to frequenting his first waking moments. 

Whatever it was, he was sure it would be gone when he returned from a quick walk to clear his thoughts. 

It wasn't real, it would be gone once he had taken a breather and felt ready to sleep again.

So what if he left his glasses off, clasped tight in his hand as he did so to make sure that whatever it was couldn't come into focus?

So what if as he walked towards his door, fully intent on ignoring it, he made sure to shuffle in an arc around it, giving it as wide a berth as he could as he shuffled to the closed door that stood beside it?

He was still proving his point. In fact he was doing better than that. If his point was wrong, he was still keeping his distance, keeping himself safe from harm.

Stan would have liked that. He would have laughed at him,  _a lot,_  but the thought would have counted.

In hindsight, his actions would amuse him. In hindsight, he might tell Stan about it months later just to see him laugh and for both of them to wish he'd had a camera set up so they could both watch as he walked around his room in a wide circle to avoid an invisible monster in the corner of the room.

For now though- he would just be sleepily proud of himself for taking those steps and leaving the room and the creature behind, assured that the creature was just in his head without having to prove it to his senses.

He walked on autopilot, no real focus in mind as he stumbled around. He had no destination, just an urge that needed to be thwarted. There was a strange fizzling buzz in his peripheral as he walked, a questioning noise that he responded to without thought as he strode through the hallways and doubled back on himself.

The sound came again, almost a voice, almost a query but though he heard it, his brain didn't really process the noise, or at least not consciously. He muttered back once more, a reassurance, though to himself or to the noise he wasn't quite sure as he wandered back to his bedroom.

He gave a relieved sigh as he pushed the door open all the way, watched the light pool and spill from the hallway and into his now once more innocuous room as his eyes adjusted.

The cabinet beside his door was empty once more, the top completely clear except for a few half finished projects and a smattering of papers. There was no strange bubbling monstrosity in sight, no creeping vines or pulsing tendrils- just his quiet, dark room, ready and calling to him to return and rest.

He gave a shaky smile, slipping inside, softly berating himself for his moment of weakness, even with the tingle of proud relief that his idea had succeeded. He turned towards the door, closing it as quietly as possible as he did so, his thoughts shifting back to thoughts of sleep and rest and-

As his door closed with a soft click, a deep reverberating growl echoed behind him.

His heart stopped, lodging in his throat as the growl petered off. It was a vicious sound, a snarl of venom as if his actions had offended it, as if he had trapped a creature he shouldn't have, one that did not like to be backed into a corner. He could feel the presence at his back, could sense where the noise had come from as his eyes widened and his breathing hitched.

He spun as quickly as possible, hand automatically going to the light switch within reach, the warm glow dousing the room in light just as quickly as he had shut it into darkness-

The room was empty.

He swallowed past the lump in his throat, eyes darting around as he pressed back into the door, hand fumbling for the handle. His mind raced through every creature, both normal and anomalous, in this dimension that could make that noise, one that was small enough to hide. But there was nowhere to hide, he'd made sure of that. He could make a quick circuit of his room and find nothing- and he knew he'd find nothing, he  _knew_  that-

But somehow he didn't know whether or not that made it worse.

He found the door handle after a few tense seconds, gripped it tightly as he tried to yank it open against his own body weight, not quite yet willing to turn his back on the open space before him. It felt like such a risk, such a gamble. Was it all in his head? All just his mind playing tricks on him, not quite awake even as he wandered? 

Or was there something there? Was there something waiting for him to turn his back, to let his guard down? Ready to bite and tear and-

The door hit him square in the back, knocking the freezing fog, that had been infesting his brain, out through his lips. He took the call for what it was, darting back out of the room and slamming the door without a thought, holding onto the handle, keeping it pulled shut, just in case whatever was in there decided to try and pull back.

He stood there for a few seconds, breathing heavily, head resting on the wood of the door as he waited for something- anything to happen.

It couldn't just be that, it couldn't be over. Whatever this was, it had to have a reason-

"So... I'm gonna guess you're not fine, after all?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Another dream of mine. There was something at the end of my bed and my door is also at end of bed- so i scuttled in the biggest arc around the thing, grumbling at it all the while for being /not there really/. And when I came back it was gone, breathed a sigh of relief- and heard the weirdest growl just when i turned the light off and closed my door 8D I have no idea. Thanks brain.
> 
> Also my brain is unhappy right now so I’m gonna go. I’m hoping that this note isn’t gibberish cause everything’s a bit spinny.


	4. ...But with company the world seems brighter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the end! I don't think I have any warnings for this one c:

A soft clatter echoed through the drone of the TV before him.

Stan zoned back into reality along with the noise, eyes pulling away from the glowing screen. He glanced at the clock nearby, eyebrows scrunching at the mere hour that had gone past since he sat himself down, and tried fruitlessly to calm his nerves and the steady incessant increase of his heart beat.

No one should be up yet.

It was still the middle of the night, there was no reason-

And yet there were footsteps coming towards him, his breath hitching ever so slightly and his body tensing as the image of a broken, twisted Rico slipped into his brain once more. He clacked and clicked through the hallways, crept and crawled down the staircase. His juddering movements were slow but steady, hunting him with a nonchalant precision as if he knew there was nothing he could do and nowhere he could hide-

Before the fear could really take hold though, sending him over the edge into a fully fledged panic, his brother's frame walked swiftly passed the open doorway.

"Ford?"

He blinked as his brother made a soft noise in response, obviously having heard him but continuing on his way as if he hadn't. He frowned, his eyebrows scrunching lower as he sat up straight.

That didn't seem right, not at all.

What had his brother so preoccupied that he hadn't even stopped?

He didn't have much time to dwell on it though as the footsteps came close again, loud and clapping against the floor. He smiled slightly, amused as he assumed his brother had finally woken up properly and was retracing his steps to see if someone had actually spoken to him.

He put his arm up ready to cheekily wave, just as Ford once again walked past, again without a look and without a word.

Stan deflated, cheeky smile falling as his arm stayed awkwardly aloft in a half wave.

Now he didn't know much about his brother's sleeping habits, but nothing about this seemed right from where he sat.

"Ford? Are you OK?"

"Yes, yes, fine."

And in the same vane, that sounded about as truthful and present as him during a sales pitch.

He sighed softly, standing up with a groan of protest. His body was exhausted, but frankly he couldn't care less. He needed to get to the bottom of whatever was troubling Ford and he would be damned if he fell asleep with Rico rattling around his skull ready to pounce as soon as he tried. He poked his head round the doorway, watching warily as his brother vanished back into his room. 

The doubts settled in then, his own half asleep mind clearing. Maybe Ford really had been fine. Maybe he had been half asleep and just needed a drink or the bathroom-

Stan blinked and his brother was back in view, slamming the door quickly behind him and breathing heavily, shoulders heaving in gasps of fear as he struggled to keep the door closed.

He watched his head droop against the door, watched him scrunch his eyes shut and he could almost hear his mind spinning, snapping through a hundred miles per hour.

_It's not real, it's not real, it's not-_

And there went the doubts that Ford didn't need him. Any thoughts of his own nightmare were quickly discarded and pushed to the back of his mind, no longer pressing against the image before him.

"So... I'm gonna guess you're not fine, after all?"

~~~

Ford flinched, glancing over his shoulder in a quick snap of his neck, before relaxing once more. Stan stood at the end of the hallway, arms crossed as he leaned back against the living room door frame, his eyebrow raised and a soft smirk colouring his expression. The concern behind it burned through the most though, a flicker to his gaze that blew away the cobwebs in Ford's skull and reminded him that he  _was_  awake and he  _was_  OK. His heart still raced though, a nervous fizzle of energy as his brain finally awoke and tried to connect the dots even as they refused in turn to sit in place for more than a few seconds.

Everything made sense in the same instance that it didn't. It had to have been a dream but it felt too real to have been one.

All that should matter was that it had just been a dream, and yet he couldn't let the twisting fear go as simply as that notion. 

He blinked, his brother still standing, watching him and realised with a jolt that he hadn't responded and that Stan of all people had enough on his plate without him adding to it right now.

"N-No, I'm fine. Just- Just... I'm fine." He swallowed, letting go of the doorknob before turning to Stan, his own concerned frown slipping across his face as his mind caught up to the situation. From the darkness still permeating the nearby windows, it was definitely not a time that anyone in the house should be up yet. "Actually, are you-"

"Come on, Sixer. You can't pull that one on me." Stan rolled his eyes, standing up straight as he gestured at him to follow, before disappearing back into the living room behind him. 

"But-"

"Unless you want to go back to your room right now, then be my guest."

Ford blinked, gaze turning back to the door that he had just slammed shut, eyeing it up like it was a wild beast about to attack him.

With that in mind, he sighed, shoulders slumping as he followed his brother, his breath huffing out almost petulantly if the way his brother laughed in response was anything to go by.

"That's what I thought."

Ford peeked around the doorway, watching as his brother settled back into his chair, turning the sound down on the TV ever so slightly and leaning back with a small happy sound. He raised an eyebrow, eyes darting around the room as his brain became more and more active.

This did not look like a scene that had just arisen, this looked far more like his brother had been down for a while.

"Take a pew." Stan tapped the seat beside him, a recent addition to the room since their friends around town had cobbled together and scrounged up what furniture they could to make the place inhabitable once more.

"Stan..."

"What? I'm not gonna ask you to talk about anything you don't want to. But it looked to me like you wouldn't be going to sleep anytime soon- so why not join me and relax for a bit?"

Ford frowned. He couldn't really argue with that, though that hadn't been what he was going to ask. Instead he did as told, shuffling over to sit in the seat beside Stan and letting him throw part of the oversized blanket he had wrapped around himself over him as well. He took comfort for a few moments, letting the peaceful feeling of his brother safe and sound beside him calm his still fast beating heart, the droning tv making his tense muscles relax and his shoulders sag down from their defensive place around his ears.

"There. That's better, right?"

Ford zoned back in from his curled up position, catching Stan's eye as he gave him a once over. He gave a steadying breath, nodding slightly before sitting himself up better and taking in Stan's position again.

"I'm going to guess I'm not the only one having trouble sleeping tonight?"

"Nope."

Ford winced at the one word answer, his brother turning back to the screen once more. "Stan, you just saw me run out of my room, there's no judgement here."

"Oh, I know. Same here, Sixer." Stan shrugged, still not looking at him. "Not judging at all. Believe me, I'm glad you didn't see  _me_  earlier." His gaze flickered back to him, a toothy grin in place that didn't reach his eyes. "Honestly, wasn't a pretty sight."

"If you want to talk about it-"

"Not really." Stan looked away again, a flicker of frustration fizzling through Ford at the sight. "I'd much rather know you're OK and if you need someone to talk to."

"That's not important. Stan, if I can help you, I want to-"

"I know you do. But Ford, you're always helping." Stan twisted the blanket between his fingers, covering himself further as if to shield himself, or maybe both of them from the world. And still, it hurt that he couldn't hold his gaze for more than a few seconds. "Even when it hurts you, or when you've obviously got other things on your mind, you put all those thoughts aside to help me at the moment. And I'm not complaining, but you need to look after yourself too. So, hows about you let me look after you for a change?"

Ford couldn't help the wince of pain, his own turn to glance away from Stan's guilty expression at his response. 

After all, Stan was  _always_  looking out for him and always had. 

It was just his turn to repay the favour, that was all. Nothing was more important than making sure Stan was OK at the moment. 

He wasn't sure he could say all that out loud though. Didn't think Stan would take kindly to that.

_I've always looked after you? Well then, you know already I won't let this go then._

_You can repay the favour by letting me help you then._

"I'm sorry."

Ford's head snapped back up at the words. "Sorry?"

"Yeah, I don't- you don't have to talk about anything you don't want to. I already said I wasn't going to ask and yet here I am." Stan's smile wavered awkwardly. "I mean if you do want to talk please do. But I guess I'm also making the point that I'm... really not up for talking about what happened earlier myself either."

"Ahh. Fair. That's fair." Ford gulped past the lump that told him to keep questioning, to find out the culprit behind Stan's fears and break it down until Stan felt safe and secure again.

Knowing that Stan felt the same way, alleviated the feeling a bit, knowing that Stan similarly didn't judge him but didn't want to talk about it, made it easier to put the thoughts on hold for the moment and distract instead.

Sometimes a distraction was better than confronting the issue anyway.

"Anything good on tv?"

Stan snorted, though his body relaxed as Ford gave into small talk. "At this time of night? What do you think? It's b-rated horror movies at best and an assortment of strange commercials for things you didn't know you needed at worst." He leaned in conspiratorially. "And between you and me I know for a fact that most of them don't work like they're meant to."

Ford huffed out a laugh. "Oh, really? Good to know you won't be buying anything in the middle of the night then."

Stan shoved him playfully. "Oi. It's you I'd be more worried about. Or some variation of 'I can make that with my eyes closed, here I'll prove it'." 

Ford shoved him back, rolling his eyes without comment as he settled back into the sibling banter that had returned once Stan started to remember him. 

He liked it too much to be awkward with it, ignoring the slippery voice that said he didn't deserve the familiarity that had been missing between them for forty years.

"I'm not sure about you but I think I'll give the horror movies a pass tonight. As bad as they'll be, I really don't have the energy to point out quite how terrible they are." 

Ford hummed in agreement. He could hear the rest of the thought process behind it. The moments when even a b-rated horror could hit too close to the mark as badly executed as they might be. "Any reruns on?" 

"How would I know? I haven't watched the stuff through in the first place." 

Ford shoved him again as he tapped at his head. "Not funny. But they won't be reruns to me either then I guess, I haven't really watched much tv since coming back."

"Reruns of old tv shows it is. If I remember anything from them I'll be sure to spoil the show for you."

Ford let out another strangled laugh, shaking his head at his brother's antics. But really, he couldn't complain. It was nice, far nicer than going back to an empty room filled with shadows. The easy lighthearted conversation was doing wonders for his nerves even as he watched Stan for signs of the same.

He needed to make sure he was feeling better too.

Ford watched as his brother flicked through the channels before settling on something that seemed halfway familiar. There was still a tenseness to his shoulders though and in the set of his jaw. One that Ford had started to accustom with memories, when things weren't sitting in line as they should and his thoughts were twisting themselves into knots. 

And he was pretty sure that it wasn't the thoughts of not remembering a tv show that was doing that to him.

"Stan. I just have one question. And you don't have to answer if you don't want and you won't have to elaborate at all if you do."

He cringed as Stan's body tensed up again, locking into place. But he gave a swift nod even as he bit down hard on his lip.

"Was it a nightmare? Or a memory?"

Stan sighed, deflating ever so slightly with a laugh that didn't suit him. "You make it sound like those can't be one and the same, Sixer."

A pregnant pause followed, an awkward hush that made Ford's stomach twist guiltily. "...Sorry. Ignore me." 

Stan groaned, scrubbing at his face. "No. No, I'm not being fair. You always help with memories and I know you always want me to come get you if I have any but... some are best dealt with alone."

Ford gulped, giving a jolt of a nod. "Right. Of course, you never have to share, don't ever feel you have to."

"Thanks." 

Silence reigned again, less comforting than before. 

Ford almost wished he'd never asked.

"But... there is one thing I can't get out of my head."

Ford's ears perked up, body shifting closer. "Yes?"

Stan looked at his hands, frown marking his face deeply and Ford wanted nothing more than to smooth the worry lines away. "It's just- it feels off. The nightmare, the memory- that was that. But this feeling, this routine. Checking the room over, heading straight downstairs. Turning on every light as I go before traipsing in here and turning the tv on... that didn't feel new or out of the ordinary." His face twisted, gulping ever so slightly. "Guess I'm just worried this isn't a one time deal. I hoped it was just because of my memory but this all feels... familiar." He bunched up the blanket between his fists again, twisting and turning the fabric as if he wasn't quite sure what to do with himself. "I just- it's weird. Feeling like a memory is so fresh and new and yet like this has all happened before... I'm not even sure I'm making sense."

"No, I- I'm not going to lie, it's difficult to understand. But only because I haven't been in your position. Nor do I know of many who have- believe me, I've looked all over." 

Stan snorted at that, shaking his head. "Of course you have, Poindexter." He scrubbed at his eyes. "I just wish I knew that this wasn't going to continue even after my memories come back."

"I- I'm sure..." Ford's throat closed up in that instant though, his heart sinking through the pit of his stomach as he sat there and thought about it. 

There was a flutter on the edge of his peripheral, a memory that had held no meaning at the time, coming to the forefront. 

He wanted to give his brother peace of mind but... if he was honest, there was something about all this that seemed familiar to him too...

A small sound of pain escaped him as it hit him, shame and disgust warring for his attention in equal measures.

"Ford? Do you know something?"

He shook himself, eyes once more catching on Stan's now strained face. "What? I-"

"Ford, I know you normally don't like to tell me things I don't remember. And I don't really want the details. But if we've done this before, I'd really like to know."

"I- I mean... we haven't done this before but..." Ford bit his lip, fingers drumming on the arm of his chair. He needed a moment to process all this himself really, but he knew he didn't have that. He'd just have to rip off the plaster and hope this didn't go too badly. "I... I had a nightmare earlier in the summer. I came through the house and you asked me if I was OK... I didn't think about it at the time, didn't wonder what you were doing up that late at night..."

"Ahh."

Ford's stomach felt like it might rebel at the recollection. "I didn't speak to you at all... Not about..."

Stan winced sympathetically, noting the disappointed tone in Ford's voice. "Hey, it's alright. You'd just had a nightmare, I'm not about to be upset at you for not checking up on me."

"It's not though." 

Ford couldn't describe how wrong he was, not without going into detail.

Not without saying they'd been in the midst of an argument and it was his anger not his fear that had gotten in the way.

Not without also trying to explain how Stan had just brought him back, had all his thoughts of a happy reunion with him crushed, that he hadn't been able to be grateful at all and even when his brother had tried to check if he was OK, his first response had been to lash out and try and start a fight.

The voice in his head was growing louder and louder with every thought. He could feel himself spiralling back down to that place that was usually kept buried deep until he was alone in the dark. But Stan was there beside him, and he needed to pull back up, keep himself afloat for his sake. He never let him see this side, tried his best to hold it all in until the dam broke when he was alone.

...Now though, it was like everything was coming through a filter.

" _I'm sorry."_

* * *

There was an edge to the words that didn't sit well with Stan.

He could feel it, the force, the pain, all the things Ford thought he needed to apologise for wrapped up in one distraught sentence. 

This wasn't just about some night, weeks ago when he didn't see something he should have.

This was about so much more.

And he had a feeling he knew what.

His brother always seemed to blame himself for his memory problems, but he didn't see how it could be his fault.

The kids had told him briefly about what had happened, about how he had helped save the world- or at least their town, he didn't really believe the 'world' sentiment- and lost his memories in the process. So, frankly, he didn't see that as that big of a sacrifice in the whole scheme of things.

And it definitely didn't seem like something Ford should be apologising for. 

"Hey, it's OK, honestly. And heck, you're here now, aren't you? That's the main thing. Maybe we couldn't help each other that night, but we can tonight, right?"

"But... I wasn't there for you when you needed me before. I was so blinded by-"

Ford's words caught in his throat. Stan waited patiently but when nothing else came of the sentence he gave a soft sigh, resting his hand on top of Ford's and giving it a tight squeeze. "I still mean it. Maybe things were different before, but... the fact that you're looking after me now means a lot." 

He watched as Ford swallowed, his eyes fairly glassy in a way he wished he could stop but knew better than to point out.

"I'm your brother, Stanley. I'm not going anywhere when you need me. Not again. Not anymore."

"Yeah, well, likewise, Nerd."

Ford blinked at him, a strangely genuine smile blooming across his face that Stan didn't quite understand.

"I know. It's taken me a while to realise that, but I know."

* * *

 

It was a while later when Ford finally broke.

It had gone quiet, almost peaceful. He could feel Stan relax beside him once more, zoning into the tv without a thought and with him, some semblance of him returned to peace as well. His brother was OK, therefore he was OK.

At least, to an extent.

The floodgates had been opened and the voice wormed its way deeper and deeper into his core. There was so much he wanted to say, so much he needed to say. But until Stan remembered everything, it didn't feel right. How could he say everything he needed to when the man he needed to say it to wasn't truly with him?

And then he felt guilty for even thinking that.

Stan was right there beside him. Memories or not, he was still Stan.

He wasn't some shell, some husk. That wasn't fair on him when he was still alive and with them.

And he couldn't make him feel incomplete, not when there was still a chance he'd never fully remember. 

The dead of night wasn't helping, the hush just waiting for him outside their little sphere, their little cocoon of peace. It was like a bubble, keeping the world at bay but it crept into his mind through the cracks. It was that time of night when nightmares were active, when no matter what logical responses you came up with, your brain stuck to emotions- fear and anger and all the twisting, niggling doubts that logic was  _wrong_  and that horrible gut wrenching fear was  _right_.

In the morning, when the sun flickered through the curtains and cast specks of light across the room, all those thoughts would seem insignificant, childish even. All the things that he wanted to say would be calmly locked away again, no longer so pressing and demanding until the next night his brain unleashed it's fury on him.

But it wasn't the morning yet.

And for once he wasn't alone with his thoughts.

And in a moment of vulnerability, he cracked.

"Stan?"

"Hmm?"

"If... if something happened, something big that you didn't remember anymore... something between us. Do you- that is- do you think when you remember, it'd change your opinion of me?"

The words came out in a stutter of breath. It was strange, like a dam had burst and frozen over at the same time, the words pouring out but stuttering as his brain tripped over itself, blanking out when he needed it the most. All that careful planning gone straight out the window.

He waited as Stan stared at him for a few moments, head tilting slightly in perplexity. There was a beat of a moment and then his eyes seemed to widen, a spark of understanding flowing through him and for some reason Ford found himself back-pedalling in response. head down and away as his heart shrivelled.

"S-Sorry, that was a really dumb question, wasn't it? How can you answer that when you don't know what I'm-"

"Easy."

"-talking about- wait. What?" Ford blinked, turning back to Stan, eyes wide and shocked. Stan stared back at him, face serious, without a hint of hesitation or doubt. "Easy?"

"Yeah. Easy, I can answer that easily."

Ford's stomach knotted. "No. I shouldn't have asked. That's not fair. You can't possibly-"

"Ford. Stop."

Ford's mouth shut with a snap.

Stan huffed, bemused that his brother had done as told. "Listen, Sixer. I might not remember, and I might never. But I still without a shadow of a doubt can tell you that it wouldn't change anything. There's this..." His hands moved half-heartedly as if he could convey it some other way, though he was determined to get the words out now that he had figured out that whatever his brother's nightmare had been had contained him, and from before all this by the sounds of it. "I want to call them half memories but I don't think that's quite right either." He squinted, tongue peeking out as he lost himself in the details. "It's like- I know things. I don't know how I know these things or why, but there's something inside me- some notion that I know it?"

"That makes sense. Like muscle memory? You didn't remember straight away that you learnt boxing but you could still throw a punch."

"I guess?" Stan shrugged, face scrunching up as if it hurt. "It's like that but not always a physical thing? It's like some part of me still knows when to warn me or give me directions on how to do something. So, in any case I might not know why but I still can do things I could do before, yeah?"

"Yes. You've shown that a lot in leaps and bounds. But I'm not entirely sure what that has to do with-"

"Simple. I get those feelings with people too. I got a weird feeling the first few times I saw you, Sixer." Stan held his hand up as Ford froze, his mouth opening and eyes distraught. "Bare with me. Just- listen. Like I said, there was this odd feeling in the pit of my belly. It was like I was waiting for you to be angry at me. I kept expecting you to suddenly turn on me and shout and somewhere deep down I knew I deserved it. Every time I saw you, I felt like I'd done something wrong but I just didn't remember what that was anymore. It wasn't that I wanted a fight, I was just prepared for one." He couldn't look at Ford anymore, the distraught expression growing stronger and stronger with every word. "But then you didn't- get angry at me that is."

"Of course not." 

The words were choked, painful and strangled as if Ford hated that Stan had ever thought that.

"You haven't- you didn't... Stan, I need you to know you didn't do anything wrong- I mean, this, what's happened to you- that wasn't your fault."

Stan shrugged. "But I've done things wrong before?"

Ford gave a huff of disturbing laughter, hysterical and high pitch, a sound Stan hoped he'd never hear again. "Haven't we all?"

Stan nodded, voice quiet and filled with trepidation. "That wasn't what I meant though. What I'm saying is- whatever you think you've done, I think I'd already forgiven you before I lost my memory." 

"Stan..."

"What? It makes sense to me. I don't want to fight you, Ford. If you'd done something as bad as you're making it sound, wouldn't I want to? It's the same way it made sense to me that I loved those kids and needed to keep them safe even when I had no idea who they were. It's the same way it made sense that I didn't ever want to see any of you hurting, even without knowing how much you all meant to me. Whatever happened, Ford, I- really can't see me changing my mind on you being family."

Ford blinked at him, feeling his eyes tear up slightly and scrubbing at them regardless of how close they were to actually falling. 

He didn't know why, perhaps it was the words 'as far as I'm concerned, they're the only family I have left' ringing in his ears, but Stan's words now comforted him more than he cared to admit. 

He didn't want to think about Stan taking that back, pulling away from him again and telling him he wasn't family.

He knew that he should just be happy if Stan remembered at all, but he'd have just got him back to lose him all over again.

Still the voice in his head would not be cowed quite so easily.

"...I want to believe you. Gods, do I. But I'm also scared that when you remember everything you'll realise..."

Stan gave a chuckle, a sound that still wasn't quite as it should be, ironic and cold, as he shook his head at him. "Yeah, well, I do get it. I mean, considering what things I've remembered tonight- I'm kind of scared you'll think differently of me too."

"That's really not possible."

The words came out without hesitation, Stan's chuckles growing warmer as his smile stretched wider.

"Heh. see? You don't know what I've remembered but you're sure your opinion of me won't change." Stan's smile turned cheeky as Ford opened his mouth to retort before closing it again, rendered speechless in this small dispute. The smile didn't last long though, his face shifting seriously as his mind wandered towards his earlier dreams and the memories they held. "But really, I'm not going to hold you to that. This was... something else. And I hope one day I can tell you without worrying that you'll- I dunno, throw me out or keep me away from the kids or something-"

" _Don't_. Stan, don't even joke about something like that." Ford put his hand up as Stan opened his mouth. "No, I- I can't. I can't have you ever thinking that I would kick you out or- just  _no_ , never. Don't ever think that."

Stan huffed, eyebrows furrowing as he shook away Ford's concern, trying his best to ignore the pained expression he received in return. "What? I'm not joking. I- it's just-" He sighed, scrubbing a hand through his hair as his eyes drifted back to the tv. "Right now I feel- no, I  _know_  I've been a terrible person. I've found out something about myself I never thought I'd have- and that's just one moment, one night and- what else have I done? What else don't I remember? I still don't even know  _half_  of what I've done over the years and-"

He stuttered to a halt, only caught by the sudden need to breathe, a gasp of air that caught the words spilling from his lips and brought him back to his senses. He could feel a warm hand on his shoulder, feel his nails digging into his palms and in an instant he slumped, realising too late just how much had bubbled up and out in a moment of desperation.

The hand on his arm rubbed soothingly up and down, warm and calming and he was sure he could hear soft muttered words beside him, barely there but enough to steady his breathing. He groaned, leaning forward and burying his head in his hands. "No. This isn't right."

"Hmm?"

Stan turned to him, resting his cheek on his palm and his elbow on his knee. "I said we weren't going to talk about me tonight. Tonight was about making sure you were OK." He ignored the noise of reproach from his brother, eyes glazing over slightly as he smiled weakly. "...Though I probably can't stop now, can I? Can't quit while I'm ahead when I've probably scared you half to death and owe you an explanation-"

Ford cut him off before he could continue, another warm hand on his back, just a touch, enough to bring him back, to pull him from the nervous precipice he'd wandered out on to.

"No, you don't. You don't have to say anything you don't want to, ever. I can wait." He clapped him awkwardly on the back, his face concerned but determined, warring with wanting to help and giving him space. "When you need me and when you're ready- only when you're ready to, then we can talk about it. Until then, I won't ask."

Stan sagged under the touch, hands once more scrubbing underneath his glasses, his voice muffled by his palms. "Thanks, Sixer."

Silence permeated them, the drone of the tv fizzling back into the peripheral like a welcome friend to stem the mood from awkward to comfortable once more.

They were OK, the world was OK. Maybe not perfect, and maybe not completely honest, but trying all the same. Still spinning forward, ever moving, no longer stagnating in their own minds.

"Besides..."

Stan's ears perked up as Ford spoke, trepidation filling the room once more as his brother struggled to say whatever it was he felt had to be said even whilst scared of ruining the moment.

He gave it to him for trying, for not clamming up like he felt like doing. Maybe some things just had to be said, they may not feel right in the moment but the world was still better for the honest communication.

"Whatever you think you've done that's so... awful." Ford cringed as Stan winced, moving ever so slightly away before stopping himself and nodding to prove he was listening. "I can say there's a very high chance that I've done something similar." He gulped, looking down at the hand still resting in his lap, tightening into a fist as Stan looked over at him dubiously. "I've done a lot of terrible things over the years. Things that I'm not proud of." He swallowed again, facing Stan once more in a moment of courage. "But I did them to survive."

A colder silence flowed over them, or perhaps the temperature had just fallen swiftly for Ford since he'd spoken.

He hadn't told any of them that before. He'd tried his best to hide that from them.

Sure, he'd spoken about some close calls and daring escapes with Stan before but never... that.

Never what those trying times had sometimes made him become in order to stay alive. 

The times he'd become, in his eyes, worse than the monsters that chased him.

"To survive, huh..."

Ford blinked at the words, coming back into the present and away from darker memories as Stan mused. It was a half whisper, some words he wasn't even sure he was meant to hear, and his face was harder to read still. There was a desperate edge of fear and pain twisting his mouth down, a bite to his lip as if he wanted to ask but didn't really want to know. And Ford couldn't blame him, if Stan was feeling anywhere near as much pain as he was at the mere suggestion that Stan had been in a situation like that- well, then he needed to change the subject quickly. This was not the time or place for that particular heart to heart, not when he could already feel his blood pumping, needing to fight whoever or whatever had hurt his brother so.

But there was something else, some small spark resting deep within his gaze that stopped him. He couldn't quite make it out, not in amongst the pain, but for some strange, nonsensical reason-

It looked a lot like hope.

Like maybe there was a chance that Ford understood, after all.

And just like that it clicked, and Ford let out a breath, let all the anger that fizzled below the surface flutter away from him for another time, when Stan was ready and he could justifiably tear his monsters to shreds for him.

"...Was this something similar, Stan? This memory of yours?"

He watched as Stan swallowed, a jerky nod following though he once again couldn't look him in the eye.

"Yeah. Something like that."

"Then, Stan?" Ford tilted his head, moving closer until he caught Stan's eye and held it. "I can most definitely say that I won't think any differently of you when you can tell me about it. In fact, as bad as you may think this sounds-  whatever it is that you did, I'm glad you did it if it means you're still here with us now."

There was a choked off noise in response, a strangled squeak of shocked disagreement as Stan's eyes widened and his head shook.

"I mean it. You survived, Stan, whatever it was, you survived it. And that's all I could ever ask for."

Stan choked again but there was that spark, growing brighter and brighter as Ford watched, settling all his nerves back into a proud hum that he had been helpful.

"H-Hows about-" Stan coughed, sniffing loudly as he scrubbed at his eyes. "Hows about we don't talk about terrible things done to survive, just like how we won't put on bad horror movies at this time of night?" He gave a wobbly smile, trying his best to seem nonchalant "Kind of seems counter-productive, doesn't it? Sitting up all night telling horror stories after nightmares."

Ford grimaced, nodding with him. "True. Done and done, neither of those need to be revisited tonight."

"Mhm. Maybe soon we'll feel up to tearing some horror movies down a peg or two."

"I'll hold you to that."

"Instead, uhm..." Stan coughed again, sitting back, his smile turning softer and more genuine as he turned to Ford. "So that bad memory, it kind of brought a lot of other ones with it. You know, stupid, funny things. The kind of stuff that at the time could have used a good ol' helping of hindsight that you didn't have. Maybe... you'd like to hear about them?"

Ford's smile grew wider, the warmth settling in as he curled up closer, tugging the blanket around his chin. "Always."

"And maybe you can share some fun memories from your travels? Or before your travels? You hardly ever speak about college." Stan tapped away, hesitation once again colouring his voice. "I dunno, just fun stuff. Nothing serious, nothing bad, none of that allowed tonight."

"You mean like the time I lost a bet to a plant?"

"Yes, I definitely meant like the time you lost a bet to a plant- now spill already."

Ford laughed, a loud noise he quickly stifled as Stan shushed him and looked out the doorway worriedly as if they might wake the kids. "Alright, well it all started when..."

* * *

 

The fog of sleep was lifting.

Stan frowned, a sad whine escaping him as something pulled him towards consciousness. There was this strange buzzing, quick hissing blips that he couldn't quite catch and a bright light warming his face and glowing through his eyelids. He could feel the inevitability, feel the futility in ignoring it all and yet he still tried, eyes clamped shut and a grimace of displeasure tugging at his features.

It was so hard to care about waking up, the blankets were so warm and heavy around him, so much more comfortable, so much better than his first attempt at sleeping that night.

"Shh! You're waking them up!"

Stan's whine became louder, a groan of irritation as the buzzing became words, understandable and clear. The fog was becoming harder and harder to pull back towards him and in a moment of defeat he gave in, eyes popping open and head lolling to glare at two sheepish twins staring back at him.

"Sorry, Grunkle Stan. It was just too cute."

He grunted in return, a question of sorts, still not ready to form words yet as the pair beamed over at him.

Instead of responding, Dipper nodded towards him, gesturing down. 

Stan blinked sleepily, following his gaze down, a huff of surprise escaping him as his eyes blurrily took in the sight. What his half-asleep brain had put down to heavy blankets, was partially his brother, head leaning heavily against his shoulder, his arm tight around his.

Unlike him, he was still fast asleep, the kids not even a blip on his radar and Stan wasn't completely surprised, it looked to all the world like it was quite possibly the first decent night's sleep the man had had in years.

Another soft giggle was quickly stifled, a happy giddy squeak that told him he most probably had a rather dopey smile on his face as he took in his exhausted twin. He glanced back up with a mock scowl, one that he couldn't quite hold on to and slipped easily back into a smile as Mabel practically vibrated on the spot and Dipper tried his best not to grin just as brightly back at him. He put a finger to his lips and gestured them forward, an offer they didn't need twice, both bounding in to settle on the floor in front of him, settling down and eagerly taking the then offered remote to put on a show they promised him he'd loved to sit and watch with them before their summer turned crazy.

He nodded along without much thought, not really minding what they chose as he fell back into the peaceful cocoon he'd built. He shifted to make sure Ford was comfortable, smiling again at the small noise as he shuffled back and settled in, breathing evening out within a few seconds as if nothing had happened. 

His thoughts wandered, happily and lazily ruminating on how much better he felt, waking up far more refreshed than sleep had let him feel for a very long time.

And with the kids at his feet, chattering away, and his brother beside him, dozing peacefully, he couldn't help but take from it all-

That maybe.  _Just maybe-_

Alone wasn't the way to deal with things, after all.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: And done c: Maybe not completely honest with each other but you don’t go from no communication to everything in one night if you ask me. And honestly, I know from experience that sometimes, the nightmares need some time before you feel up to sharing. Heck, these happened months ago and I’ve only just written them. Some friends knew about them, others just had to deal with me being awake when I shouldn’t be across time zones haha.
> 
> Anywho, here’s to no nightmares if we can xxx I wish you all a pleasant nights sleep


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